


And all of the ghouls come out to play

by sansaswildlinglover



Series: Heartlines [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book Characters, F/M, Not Spoilerfree, Unreliable Narrator, s, season 8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-17 12:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: Episode 1 of my personal take on season 8, will be a series consisting of 8 parts: a prologue, 6 'episodes', and an epilogue.Jon returns to Winterfell. People reunite, loyalties are questioned, plans are shared and truths revealed.1. HOME2. DOUBT3. BITTER SMILES4. ICE AND FIRE5. TRUTH





	1. HOME

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harumscarum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harumscarum/gifts).



> Title from Florence + The Machine's _Shake it Out_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Company arrives on Dragonstone.
> 
> Jon returns to Winterfell.

_**HARRY** _

Dragonstone’s jagged black edges emerge from the thick mist as the ships glide toward the island over an uncharacteristically smooth sea. It’s the calm before the storm, Harry knows. It’s an ugly sight, but it’s the first glimpse of his homeland, and his heart swells inside his chest.

Harry was born in Essos, like his father and grandfather before him, and raised in exile. Including him, four generations of Stricklands have served in the Golden Company, four generations of gold, and he’s the one who made it to the position of Commander.

He knows that not everyone is content with this new contract he’s arranged for them, but Queen Cersei pays well, and she can give them something no other deal could offer them: home.

He’s never been much of a fighter, but he has a nose for profitable contracts, and he intends for this to be his last. With a bit of luck it won’t take more than a couple of hours for him to get off this ship and have steady ground under his feet again.

As expected, the battle doesn’t take long. The Unsullied are unprepared, and the Dothraki were never meant for the defence of a castle. In the end, it’s the numbers that ensure the victory. The Targaryen girl had only left a small regiment behind to defend her seat.

His first moments on Westerosi shores are disturbed by the sight of Unsullied and Dothraki corpses littering the beach.

“Have someone take care of those,” he orders Balaq.

The Summer Islander gives him a curt nod and starts shouting commands.

Dragonstone’s halls are dark and dreary and the frosty air is chilling him to the bone, but it’s nothing a nice fire and a lamprey pie can’t chase away. Tomorrow they’ll move on to the mainland.

“Ser!” a voice tries to catch his attention. “Captain, Ser!”

It’s his squire Watkyn, who seems slightly out of breath. He should remember to ask the lad for a box of candied pineapple.

“Ser,” he pants.

“Spit it out, lad.”

“King Euron requests your presence in the throne room."

 _King Euron._ Greyjoy was an upjumped pirate born on a rock even drearier and infinitely more pitiful than Dragonstone. Harry has wondered before why Queen Cersei has made him promises to elevate him high above his station.

 _She’s using him, the same way she’s using you._ It doesn’t matter, as long as it gets him a keep of his own with servants to cook and care for him and a nice place for Margryt.

“Have you checked on the elephants yet?” he asks his squire.

“They’re still on the ships, Ser,” Watkyn explains. “Duck says the beasts wouldn’t handle coming ashore and being made to board again t’morrow too well, Ser.”

“Make sure Margryt gets her treats, and have them brush her.”

“Aye, Ser.”

“Off with you then,” he waves a hand and sighs. He isn’t particularly fond of the self-proclaimed Ironborn king, and he’d rather avoid him if he could, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

More Ironborn are moving about Dragonstone’s throne room as Harry enters it, pulling down Targaryen banners and carrying chests and caskets.

Euron himself is reclining on the throne, a scrawny woman in a tattered gown cowering at his feet. She must be one of his slaves. Harry has seen them on the Silence, both the men working the oars and the women scrubbing the decks and warming the Ironborn’s beds have had their tongues cjt out.

The notion makes him queasy, so he averts his eyes from the woman on the floor to look at Euron’s chilling grin.

“It appears we are victorious, Harry!” he announces, his grin widening.

“A trouble-free victory,” Harry admits. “And only the beginning.”

“Aye, this is only the beginning,” he murmurs, holding Harry’s gaze.

He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from Euron’s stare. “Where to next? The Stormlands should be an easy next target.”

“Oh, Harry. You weren’t hoping we’d only give you the easy jobs, were you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” he mutters. “I just assumed…”

“Let us do the assuming, Harry,” Euron warns him, stroking the woman’s hair as if she were a dog.

“Queen Cersei is expecting us,” he adds. “She wants to make sure she’s getting her money’s worth.”

“My men are worth every last penny!” Harry exclaims.

“I’m sure they are,” he answers, carding his fingers through the slave woman’s limp curls, forcing her to her knees. Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the obscene sight.

“But Daenerys Targaryen has thousands of Unsullied and the largest Dothraki horde the world has seen in years.”

Harry shrugs. “We’ve fought Dothraki and Unsullied before.

“Have you?” he asks with a smirk and a dark gleam in his eyes.

He ignores the insult. “No horse can stand against our elephants.”

“What about the dragons?”

“What about them?”

“Dear Margryt would make for such a tasty snack,” Euron points out, his thumb brushing the slave woman’s lips.

Why does this wretched man enjoy taunting him like this?

“Not so eager to fight the Targaryen girl anymore, are you, Strickland? You aren’t considering changing sides?”

Harry’s blood is starting to boil. “The Golden Company has never broken a contract!”

Euron’s thumb slips between the woman’s lips and she starts sucking on it. He catches Harry looking.

“I let this one keep her tongue,” he says with a wide grin. “I took her teeth though. Much too feisty when she still had them. You can borrow her sometime if you want, but I'm warning you,  I won’t share the Queen.”

Harry shakes his head, finally tearing his eyes away.

“Walk with me,” Euron invites him as he rises to his feet, pushing the woman aside.

“It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it, Harry? Me on the Iron Throne and the most beautiful woman in the world sucking my cock.”

Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings of disgust from showing on his face. “I heard Queen Cersei was a beauty when she was younger. Light of the West, they used to call her, but even Queens grown old.”

“I wasn’t talking about Queen Cersei,” Euron laughs, and leaves Harry to ponder that in silence as they make their way out of the castle and back to the ships.

All this walking is going to give him blisters again, and they’d only just healed after weeks spent in his cabin. It’s getting late as well, and he’d like to get a good night’s sleep before they leave the island again tomorrow.

“You plan to betray Queen Cersei?” he asks Euron when they arrive on the beach.

“Betrayal is such a harsh word,” the Ironborn objects. “I need her, and she needs me, for now. She’s a smart woman, she’s aware our alliance will come to an end sooner or later.”

“It’s Queen Cersei who hired us. She’s the one who’s paying us.”

“With gold she stole from the Tyrells,” Euron shrugs.

Harry shakes his head. “That’s no concern of mine. As long as we get our due.”

“Do you think you’ll still get your gold when Daenerys Targaryen has burnt Cersei Lannister to a crisp?”

It’s hard to argue with that.

“You’re a practical man, Harry. You’re worried about the dragons.”

He can’t deny that.

“Rightly so,” Euron admits. “In a war where one side has dragons, you can bet all the gold the Queen has promised you that’s going to be the winning side.”

“So you’re saying we can’t win?” Harry wants to know.

“I’m saying we should get the person with the dragons on our side,” Euron answers, and his grin is wider than ever, the gleam in his eyes dark and dangerous.

Harry has wondered whether the Ironborn is a madman. Now he knows he is.

“Why would Daenerys Targaryen ever choose to fight on your side?”

Euron whistles with his fingers and Harry looks up at the tongueless oarsmen on the deck of the Silence leaping up to undo the ropes on a black cloth covering a large object .

The pieces of cloth fall away to reveal a horn that must be close to six feet long. It’s gleaming black, even in the grey afternoon light, and is banded with red gold and smoky dark steel. The bands are covered in strange writings. _Valyrian glyphs,_ Harry suspects.

“Once I control the dragons,” Euron interrupts his observations, “the Seven Kingdoms will be mine.”

 

 

 

_**SANSA** _

When the raven announcing Jon's return arrives, Sansa immediately orders the castle to start preparations to give him a proper welcome. As far as the North is concerned, he is still their King, so she'll keep up appearances for now. There was a time her courtesies were the only shield standing between herself and the rest of the world, so she'll resolve to relying on them for as long as she can.

Finally, after all those years of being used and abused, she allowed herself to trust a man, only for him to prove that she never should have. The pain has torn her apart inside and even her rage can't chase it from her heart, it only leaves her feeling even emptier.

Still, the thought of hearing his voice again, of seeing his eyes gaze at her softly, the memory of his comforting smell and gentle touch make her heart flutter in her chest, spreading warmth all the way through her frozen limbs.

She doesn't understand, and the confusing feeling only adds to her pain, so she pushes it down and ignores it, steeling herself as she gathers her courage standing in the spot she’s come to think of as theirs.

 _We need to trust each other,_ he told her, right here on the battlements.  _Jon is our king,_ she’s told their bannermen time and time again,  _he’s doing what he thinks is best for all of us._ She wants to believe that. She still has some hope left, but she can’t risk allowing its comfort to warm her, in case she’s wrong.

_He hasn’t betrayed the North. He hasn’t betrayed me._

A screech pierces the sky, and a warm wind sweeps over her, rustling the furs on her shoulders. She can hear the vague, far-away screams, and her own frantically beating heart is warning her what’s coming.

_Dragons._

Two great winged beasts come plunging down from the skies above. The first one is crimson and black, the colours of house Targaryen,  _Fire and Blood._

Fear stirs in Sansa’s belly, but her lips part in awe as she whirls around so her eyes can follow its flight over the keep and the Godswood.

The second and smaller dragon screeches again as it floats on boundless bronze wings, its moss green scales shimmering in the faint sunlight filtering through the clouds.

She holds her breath, waiting for the third dragon to join them, but it doesn’t come.  _Has the Dragon Queen left one of her dragons behind to guard her seat?_ She’ll find out soon enough.

 

_**JON** _

Unsullied march in front of them and behind them, and they’re flanked by a wall of long and solemn Northern faces as they ride through Wintertown, side by side, exactly how Jon has planned it.

He’s tempted to look at Daenerys, to see how she’s taking this cold welcome, but he couldn’t stand to see that smug, yet adoring little smile on her face, it would only make him hate himself more.

If she were to show some sign of insecurity now, of being affected by all those eyes staring at her, giving nothing away, that would be even worse.

He clenches his fist where it’s perched on his thigh, and pulls the reins, giving her a short nod. She shouts a command and the Unsullied part so he can ride to the gate, leaving her behind him. She doesn’t like it, but he’s convinced her it’s for the best.

As he approaches the walls of Winterfell, the fear that he won't be allowed inside grips him, but it doesn’t last long, only until he hears the order: "Open the gates!"

This is it, the moment he's been yearning for and dreading at the same time. He rides through the gap as soon as he can, slowing down until he can leap out of the saddle. The household is still gathering to receive their guests, but his eyes keep searching.

The crowd parts and she steps forward, coming to a halt, her face still and unreadable, gloved hands clasped in front of her, lips slightly parted.

He tosses the reins carelessly over the saddle's pommel and starts closing the gap between them. His feet move of their own accord, steering him home, but there's a heavy, painful pulse between his eyebrows and an unsettling knot in his stomach. The immense relief that washes over him is tainted by a fear he can't quite name.

She opens her arms and her face relaxes into that smile he loves so much, and his worries fade away. It's a good thing that she's barely two steps away, otherwise his bouncing feet would surely send him running into her arms.

He steps into her embrace,  his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer,  burying his face in the furs around her neck, breathing her in. Finally he's home again. The tense anticipation of what's about to come is still lingering in his bones, but for now, he can allow himself this moment of joy.

 

_**SANSA** _

Sansa's still coming down the stairs of the gallery when she hears the order "Open the gates!" She hurries down as fast as her feet will carry her, slowing down so she doesn't bump into the people who are already gathering in the courtyard.

The crowd parts for her and she presses on, only coming to a halt when she sees him. He looks unsure, searching for something, and to her joy he only stops when his eyes find hers.

He throws the reins over his saddle and starts walking toward her. All she can do is stand there and stare at him, clasping her hands together to keep herself from launching herself across the yard and leap into his arms.

He's looking at her in that way that makes her feel warm and safe, but to her surprise there's also a light flutter in her stomach as she watches him coming closer. It pains her to see his furrowed brow, so she opens her ams and smiles for him, only for him.

He picks up his pace and then she's holding him, his strong arms slipping under her cloak to pull her closer, her fingers clutching at the furs covering his shoulders, breathing in his comforting smell. Finally Winterfell feels like home again.

He sighs and for a moment she can feel the great burden falling off his shoulders. "Trust me," he whispers, his breath tickling her ear. It's so good to hear his voice again, and she wants to ask him how, she wants to tell him how much she's missed him, but the lump in her throat is burning with unshed tears.

He draws in a breath, hesitates and then murmurs slowly, emphasizing every word: "The North is still yours."

For now, it's all the explanation she's going to get. She can already see dozens of strangers starting to file into Winterfell's courtyard.

She watches them, her face half hidden behind Jon's shoulder. The last people to enter are a small white figure with silvery hair, and a handsome older man by her side.

 _The Dragon Queen is quite beautiful,_ a dead man's voice whispers in her ear.

Sansa turns her eyes away from them, her lips almost brushing the shell of Jon's ear when she reminds him: "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Reluctantly, she releases him, and he turns around to greet their guest.

Daenerys Targaryen is as lovely as Sansa once thought Queen Cersei was. She keeps her eyes on Jon as she approaches them, a smile fixed on her face.

“Your Grace,” Jon says pleasantly, and Sansa almost frowns at his tone. “This is my sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa smiles back at her, taking another moment to assess this stranger in her home. “Winterfell is yours,” she welcomes her. “Your Grace,” she adds after a short pause.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Harry Strickland is a new character on the show, I based 'my' Harry on the book version.


	2. DOUBT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Gendry and Jaime, Arya reunites with Jon, and Sansa questions his motives.

_**GENDRY** _

Four small pinnaces. That’s all that is left of the wildlings and members of the brotherhood who manned the castle of Eastwatch. More men tried to flee westward, over land. Gendry daren’t hope they escaped. At least they’ll stand a better chance than the ones who stood their ground and were crushed by the Wall when it crumbled down or those who were trampled by the dead.

Gendry’s life was upended years ago, when some high lords suddenly started showing interest in him. After years of wandering around the Riverlands he ended up in King’s Landing again, right under Queen Cersei’s nose. Perhaps that was the best place to hide, he mused more than once.

Life in Flea Bottom was the same as before, though perhaps the people had become meaner and more desperate, but it didn’t take long for him to find work on the Street of Steel. There he lived a lie, serving the people who’d tried to kill him, who’d killed the man who sired him.

Gendry didn’t know much about his father, still doesn’t, but he must have been better than the Lannisters. Even if the man had never learned of his existence, or had and never cared, Robert Baratheon had given him life, a strong arm and a fighting spirit, and that was more than could be said for any other person he ever met.

He’d come to think perhaps dead men are the only men you can trust, who would never betray you or turn on you when it served them to do so. Now he’s seen dead men walking, he’s looked them in the eye, he’s fought them, and he’s learned even that was a lie. Or perhaps it isn’t, after all, they never tried to hide the fact that they’d come to kill him.

It felt good, being a part of something greater, a noble cause, banding together against a common enemy. People were the real monsters, Gendry learned that a long time ago, but there was a comfort to be found in the fact that most of them were willing to do the right thing when push came to shove.

Gendry looks up, in the boat closest to them, the big boisterous wildling called Tormund is staring into nothingness, his face drawn in utter defeat. He knows he’ll see that look reflected on all of their faces, on his own. The Wall had stood for thousands of years, and the Night King destroyed it, in a matter of moments.

A chill has crept under all of their skins, a feeling of horror that might never leave them again. Perhaps later there will be time for rage and tears, now there’s only emptiness reflecting the desolation they’ve witnessed.

It was Beric Dondarrion who gave them a chance to escape, who chose to stay behind and die so they could live, and Gendry knows he should feel grateful and sad and angry, but there’s no space for any emotion despite utter despair inside of him.

“We need to get south, to Winterfell,” Tormund said flatly as the current of the Bay of Seals carried them away from the site of destruction. “We need to warn them.”

He didn’t need to speak the words. They were all thinking it. They might be too late. What was to stop the Night King from flying his dragon all the way to the castle and destroying it with one blast?

Who could stand against a dragon? The mere sight of it would rob men of all their courage, forcing them to their knees. Still, they have to try, holding on to this last sliver of hope, getting their first is the only chance they can give all the people gathered there.

He wonders whether she is there, that fierce little girl who gave him courage on the road, in the place she always called home. If she is there, if Jon Snow is there, who accepted him with open arms, he has no choice but to try and get there.

He’s startled from his thoughts by Edd’s low grumbling. The dour Lord Commander has been quiet, staring into nothingness, like the rest of them, but apparently he’s found his voice again.

“I can’t believe this is happening to me. I wish I was one of those poor fuckers who got buried under the rubble. They’re better off.”

Gendry wonders whether that’s true. He’s tempted to agree.

“A nice quick death,” Edd continues. “They didn’t even know what was coming for them. I could have died a long time ago, but no, for some reason I always make it out alive.”

Some would consider that good luck, but not Edd, Gendry knows.

“What would me poor old mother say? What is Jon going to say? He warned me not to knock it down,” he mutters. “You should have known this was going to happen, Snow! With my luck?”

Perhaps there is some strength to be found in this dark humour. They’ve seen the beginning of the end of the world, but Edd is still Edd. Some things never change. The thought brings the ghost of a smile to Gendry’s face

 

 

_**JAIME** _

Jaime reaches Riverrun in a matter of days, but when he’s allowed inside the castle, he’s greeted by a possible complication to his plans. It would have been easy to cow any remaining Frey into giving him what he wants, but he wasn’t counting on facing a more formidable adversary.

“Jaime,” Genna Lannister exclaims, crushing him to her enormous bosom. “It’s good to see you, lad.”

 _I’m not a lad anymore, Aunt Genna, haven’t been in years,_ he thinks wryly, but he accepts the welcome.

“Sit,” she tells him. “Eat.”

He’ll need to figure out how to navigate this unexpected situation, but he decides for now it’s best to humour her. Her smooth, broad face has fooled many a man into thinking Genna is dim and docile, but Jaime has known her his entire life.

He braces his elbows over his bowl, shovelling stew into his mouth as his aunt watches him from her seat at the head of the table, uncharacteristically quiet as she drains her cup.

“So,” she starts.

“So,” he repeats.

“Here we sit, the last two sane Lannisters. Or at least I assume you are. Is it true? Have you abandoned your sister?”

He nods, keeping his eyes on his bowl.

“Both your brother and sister seem intent on destroying House Lannister,” she sighs. “First Tyrion murders Tywin, now he’s brought a Targaryen to our shores.”

“So he has.”

“But Cersei,” she continues, twirling her empty cup between her glittering fat fingers, “Cersei seems to be winning this competition of madness.”

 _She was always far ahead of us in that regard._ And he might share some blame for that, he’s  the one who encouraged her for years. But what’s done is done, and he’s not responsible for Cersei’s choices.

“I find it hard to believe even half of the rumours I’ve heard about her, which probably means they’re true,” she says pointedly.

“I’m afraid they are.”

“Afraid, Jaime?” she snorts. “You? Afraid? You are still a Lannister, aren’t you? I’m used to dealing with Freys, but I never knew you to be one.”

“It’s a manner of speech,” he sighs. He’s had enough of this conversation. He didn’t come here to make small talk with his aunt. He puts his spoon down and looks up from his bowl of stew to meet her eyes.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you here, Aunt Genna,” he says with a smile. “What brings you to Riverrun?”

“My dolt of a husband, of course,” she scoffs. “Do you still believe it was wise to sacrifice the Rock?”

She’s trying to take charge of the conversation again, but her question is easy to counter. “If you considered that decision unwise, why didn’t you stay there to defend it?”

She offers him an oddly satisfied grin. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The Targaryen girl has moved her armies North to fight snarks and grumkins. Or was it wildlings?”

Perhaps it’s better not to answer that question, one has to see it to believe it after all.

“Now, Jaime, tell me,” she says in a more serious tone, filling another cup to the brim. “What are _you_ doing here?”

If it were Tyrion in his place, he’d try to play this smart, but Jaime doesn’t have his patience, so he decides to be blunt. “I need a peace offering, for the Starks.”

“You want Edmure Tully?” Genna has always been quick to catch on.

“You do still have him?” He cocks his head. “I trust he’s alive and well?”

Her immense chest puffs up with indignation. “What do you take me for, Jaime? I’m not a Targaryen, nor am I your sister.”

_Seven bless me._

“Even the Freys know better than to kill prisoners of war. They kept him alive all this time, didn’t they?”

“Forgive me, Auntie, there are no certainties left in this world. I’m glad to know you’re still a woman of honour.”

She waves her cup. “You want to make peace with the Starks?”

“Winter is here,” he quips. “Daenerys Targaryen has decimated our armies. Even the Golden Company can’t stand against the Dothraki horde she’s commanding.”

“Only a fool or a madman would think to stand a chance against a dragon, let alone three,” she agrees.

 _Thank you, Auntie._ “I’ve always been a slow learner.”

She dismisses his comment. “You survived, didn’t you? We can reconsider our position come spring,” she muses. “As long as we have Roslin and the babe, we can keep Edmure and the Starks in line, I suppose.”

She drains her second cup of wine, taking a long swig before smacking her lips.

“I never expected to say this, Jaime, but perhaps you _are_ the smartest Lannister. Though that doesn’t seem like a great feat anymore, compared to your brother and sister, but you’re right. The war is over.”

“I knew you would see reason. You’re a smart woman, Aunt Genna.”

“No need for flattery, lad. If Ned Stark’s bastard can make peace with a Targaryen, he should be agreeable to do the same with a Lannister. You think you can convince him to marry one of his sisters to my Red Walder? The youngest, preferably, your brother might want to renew his marriage to the elder one.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises halfheartedly.

“I do have one reservation about this plan of yours, Jaime,” she concludes.

“Which is?” He isn’t interested in her reservations, she’s already promised to give him what he wants.

“What are you planning to give the Targaryen girl as a peace offering?” she asks. “Your own head? I hear heads are rather more vital than hands.”

Her remark wipes the smirk right off his face. “No plan was ever perfect,” he comments thinly.

 

 

**_ARYA_ **

Arya’s learned to be quiet as a shadow, but she can’t be bothered to conceal her approach, allowing her boots to crush the fresh snow underneath them. Still Bran doesn’t hear the crunch and crackle of her footsteps.

He’s in his chair in front of the Heart Tree. His eyes are white and all his senses are focused on some place far away.

She crosses her arms behind her back and waits for him to return to the present. When he does, she clutches his wrist to ground him and searches his eyes.

“They’re here,” she whispers.

He blinks and stares at her, his dark eyes still unfocused. “Arya,” he finally acknowledges her presence, squeezing her wrist back, his fingers are cold.

It’s good to hear her name on his lips. It’s a sad truth that they both need to be reminded of it from time to time now.

“You forgot your gloves,” she says, offering said gloves to him. Perhaps she should bring him another blanket as well if he wants to stay here.

“I heard the dragons,” he mutters.

“Have you seen anything yet?” She wants to tell him to come with her, to meet Jon in the courtyard, but she knows it’s no use.

“There’s an important task,” he answers, holding her gaze. “One I’m afraid no one can fulfill.”

“What is it?” she asks, kneeling in the snow.

He finally puts on his gloves and there’s a long silence before he says: “I’m not sure.”

Before he can disappear into his world of visions again, she decides to ask: “Won’t you come to the feast? Jon will be there.”

Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Jon? Yes, I need to speak to him.”

“Good, so that means you’re coming?”

“No,” he sighs. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. You and Sansa should be there as well.”

“Alright then,” she concedes. “I’ll tell them.”

He’s quiet then, and she fears she’s about to lose him again, but his eyes don’t roll back, they’re narrowed in concentration.

“There’s something else,” he says slowly, as if he’s trying to remember it. “You know where King Torrhen’s tomb is?”

She nods, but he doesn’t continue. “The king who knelt?” she encourages him to speak.

“Him,” he confirms. “There’s a boulder blocking an entrance in the wall behind his statue. It needs to be removed.”

“What’s behind the boulder?”

“A tunnel. Clear the tunnel.” There’s no emotion in his voice.

“Alright, Bran, we’ll clear the tunnel,” she assures him, but the only answer he gives her is a frail smile.

She’ll leave him to it for now, but she’s going to keep him to his promise to speak to all of them tomorrow.

When she walks through the archway connecting the Godswood and the courtyard, it’s filled with strangers, but Jon and Sansa are nowhere to be seen.

The Dragon Queen must have retreated inside as well, and so have any members of her party Arya would recognize. There are no familiar faces among the visitors.

She crosses the yard to the inner bailey and turns left to enter the Great Keep. She follows the steps up to the family quarters. She meets Sansa on her way out of the Lord’s Chambers.

“I have to send a raven to Lord Manderly. We’ll need more food,” her sister tells her. Her face is pale and lined with worry. “Jon was looking for you,” she adds.

“Where is he?”

“He’s in the guesthouse, but he was supposed to meet me here after.”

“I’ll wait for him here,” Arya decides.

She doesn’t need to wait long. She can hear his footsteps in the hallway, they’re slower and more sure than they used to be.

He opens the door and enters. “Sansa,” he sighs, and he sounds tired.

As she stands up from her sister’s chair, his eyes adjust to the light coming in through the window behind her and he stops in his tracks.

The years that have passed slip away and she loses the carefully crafted control over her face as it splits into a wide grin.

“Jon!” she shouts, and bounds forward, leaping into his open arms.

“Oomph,” he grunts as he catches her.

“Is that you, little sister? Is that really you?” he chuckles, his voice thick. “You’re not a dream?”

“No, I’m not a dream,” she laughs. “I’m here. I’m really here.”

He releases her and takes a step back, returning the grin that is starting to hurt her cheeks. His hair is different and he has a full beard now. His face looks older, and it’s littered with scars, but it’s still Jon.

“I’ve missed you, big brother.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he answers before she’s even finished her sentence. “You’re still tiny.”

“Tiny, but lethal,” she quips.

His brows furrow. “You still have it,” he says, pointing at Needle.

A faint screech that has grown familiar over the last few hours fills the air.

She turns around to look out the window and he follows her. “I didn’t think I’d ever see dragons,” she tells him with a grin.

He turns away from her. “I wish you wouldn’t have to see them so close to home.”

“Why not?” she asks him, averting her eyes as well. She doesn’t need to look at his face to sense the tension in his posture. “We need them. She’s here to help, isn’t she?”

His answer comes a heartbeat too late. “She is. But her support didn’t come free of charge.”

So it’s true. He bent the knee.

“Where is Bran?” he asks, changing the subject.

She decides not to press the matter. “He said he wants to speak to you tomorrow.”

“Not today?”

“He’s busy.”

He turns to look at her. “Busy doing what?”

“Looking for clues,” she shrugs.

The frown on his face has deepened. “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither,” she reassures him with a sad smile. “We’ve all changed, haven’t we?”

“Aye,” he sighs. “I suppose we have.”

 

 

_**JON**_

The Great Hall is alive with the buzz of Northerners making merry, celebrating the return of their King. Jon can almost allow himself to forget what is certain to come on the morrow, but never completely. Daenerys is across the room, trying to ingratiate herself to his bannermen.

He's never had any illusions about the Lords' reactions to him bending the knee, it's Dany he's worried about. She turns around, flashing him a warm-eyed smile. It stirs something inside of him, but at the same time it makes him slightly nauseous. He drains his cup of ale and sits back in his carved chair.

Sansa leans closer to him, the smell of lemon and lavender invading his nostrils. "She loves you," she comments flatly. He turns to find her blue eyes measuring him over the rim of her own cup.

"Aye, I believe she does." he replies slowly.

Sansa sips from her cup and averts her eyes. "Do you love her?"

It's a logical follow-up question, but it still takes him by surprise, most likely because he's been trying to avoid the answer to that question. Does he love her? He admires her strength and respects her fierceness, but he knows he can't trust her, she's too selfish and fickle. He can't deny he desired her, but love her?

She believes he does. He can tell by the way she looks at him, and though he's never told her so, he hasn't done anything to discourage the notion either. 

He shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat, before taking Sansa's cup from her hand, gulping down more ale to drown his guilt.

Sansa is leaning on the armrest of his chair, her face close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose. She pretends to watch the guests as she patiently waits for his answer, only her teeth worrying her plump bottom lip betraying her nerves.

"I did what I had to do in order for all of us to survive," he finally sighs. "We need her. My feelings are of no consequence."

She blinks at him slowly and nods. Across the room Daenerys is staring at him again, the smile on her face replaced with a slight frown.

“I’ve had enough of this feast,” Sansa announces. “Will you escort me back to my chambers?”

He nods. He’s been dying for a chance to get out this crowded room. He can feel Daenerys’ eyes burning into his back as she watches them leave.

Outside her chamber door, Sansa takes his hand, and his pulse jumps, but then he feels the piece of parchment she’s slipping into his hand.

“Goodnight, Jon,” she tells him with a soft smile.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

There are only three words in her note.

_Broken Tower. Midnight._

As soon as he steps out into the cool air of the courtyard again, he tosses it into a brazier.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make some sense of Gendry's sudden interest in his late father and made an attempt at solving the mess the show made of the Riverlands by introducing some book characters.
> 
> Winterfell's layout comes up briefly in the Arya POV, so I'd like to add a note on that here: there was a new and bigger set built for the final season of the show, so I've decided to use the following map for my story:
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> ****  
>   
>   
> 


	3. BITTER SMILES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei receives good news and bad news.
> 
> Daenerys doesn't feel welcome...

_**CERSEI** _

Qyburn’s hands are rough, but his touch is light, gentle and quick. Cersei knows she doesn’t have to worry about lingering, sweaty palms with him.

“All finished, Your Grace,” he tells her, turning around to give her privacy.

She wraps her bedrobe tightly around her frame and ties the sash. “And?” she asks him.

The maester lowers his eyes. She’s never seen the man so hesitant before. The half-smile he offers her is infuriating.

“What is it?” she demands.

He doesn’t answer her. “Have you experienced any morning sickness, Your Grace?”

Why is he avoiding the question? “No, but I never got sick with Myrcella either, perhaps it’s a girl.”

He nods. “What about at night? Do you have any trouble sleeping?”

“I haven’t slept well in years,” she points out. His questions are starting to annoy her.

“Any other discomforts?” he continues his inquiries. “Sweating? Feeling flushed?”

She narrows her eyes. “Perhaps. Why?”

“Your Grace,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid your red flower is wilting.”

She cocks her head. “My red flower is wilting?” she enunciates slowly.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Your fruitful years have come to an end.”

Her nostrils flare. “You’re saying I am not with child?”

He shakes his head, the look of pity in his eyes makes her blood boil.

“Get out," she snarls.

He keeps talking. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I wish I had better news for you.”

“Get. Out.”

Finally he obeys and leaves her with a bow.

“Bernadette,” she calls softly. “Bring me that flagon of wine.”

Her maid slips out of the shadows in the corner of her solar and brings her a tray with the flagon and a cup.

She pours the wine and bows her head, ready to retreat.

“Wait,” Cersei tells her. She freezes, furtively glancing up at her.

“If one word of what you’ve just heard ever leaves this room, I will cut out your tongue and make you eat it,” she promises the girl. “Have I made myself clear?”

She nods vehemently and drops into a deep courtesy. “Yes, Your Grace. Crystal clear, Your Grace.”

Cersei dismisses her with a wave of her hand and reaches for the cup of wine.

_Three for you. Gold shall be their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you…_

Her lip trembles as her vision gets blurry. _No._ She’ll drown herself in wine before she sheds one more tear.

Her lips curl into a smile. _Love is weakness._ But now she has nothing left to lose.

She drinks long and deep, it’s been a long time since she enjoyed the taste of wine this much. It’s time to get ready, Euron is set to arrive today.

***

Harry Strickland is kneeling at the foot of the Iron Throne. He tries to rise, and only succeeds with great difficulty. Cersei smirks down at his portly form. She hopes for his sake that the rest of the Golden Company are in better shape.

"Dragonstone is yours, Your Grace," he tells her.

“Were there any survivors?”

He shakes his head. “We took no prisoners.”

“And I trust it no ravens were sent before you took the castle?” She’d love to see the dragon bitch’s face when she receives the news, but it’s best to keep her in the dark for as long as she can.

“There was no time for them to send any ravens.”

It’s not a no, but she’ll take it.

“Good.” She takes a breath, envisioning her plan. “I want a thousand men to accompany me and what’s left of my armies to Casterly Rock."

“You mean to abandon the capital?” Strickland wonders. “Is that wise?”

“I didn’t hire you to question my decisions,” she retorts sharply. Best to teach him his place from the start.

“Of course not, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

“You’ll leave another two thousand in King’s Landing,” she continues. It’s a considerable sacrifice, but they’ll be needed to contain the masses and to make her attempt at a defence seem believable to that foreign whore. Otherwise she might not take the bait.

“I want four thousand men in the Stormlands, three thousand in Dorne. And half your elephants.”

The man nods. “And the rest of them?”

“The rest of them march North, to Winterfell,” she finishes her orders.

Strickland stares at her for a long moment before asking: “You want ten thousand men to march North during winter?”

“Ten thousand men and the rest of the elephants,” she corrects him. “March them there, sail, crawl for all I care, as long as you get there.”

Her fingers curl around the pommel of a sword sticking out of one of the armrests of her Throne in anticipation.

“I have an accomplice inside the castle,” she purrs. _The little fool._ “He’ll need your assistance to complete a task.”

“What kind of task?”

She nods to Qyburn, who descends the steps to offer Strickland a scroll.

“I need you to retrieve something for me,” she says with a smile. “Instructions are in the scroll.”

He breaks the wax and unties the ribbon, unrolling the parchment to read it. She waits as his eyes travel over the words.

“Very well, Your Grace,” he tells her. “We’ll start preparing immediately.”

“Don’t fail me,” she warns him sweetly. “I’ve been waiting for a very long time, and I don't take disappointment well."

He leaves her with a low bow, which he manages without toppling over.

She collects her skirts and rises, smoothing them out as she reaches the bottom of the steps.

Euron tries to stop her on her way out of the Throne Room. “A word, Your Grace?”

“I need to prepare for the journey. We’ll talk later,” she cuts off his attempt to ask her something she most certainly isn’t interested in hearing.

“I was hoping to discuss-

“Later,” she repeats. “Don’t you have matters that require your attention back home on Pyke?”

Perhaps the malicious glint in his eyes should scare her, but she’s a lioness. She will not cower before a slimy sea serpent.

 

 

_**DAENERYS** _

People don’t look her in the eye, not as a sign of respect and deference, but of anger and contempt. And even when they do, Daenerys has noticed, it’s in furtive glances, like a skittish beast fearing the attack of a predator, as if searching for the signs of the madness that had been her father’s bane.

The looks her Hand is attracting are even more openly hostile. He catches her glaring back at a young girl who’s fixing them with a derisive glare. He offers her a wry smile and lifts his cup.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” she asks him.

“People have been looking at me like that my entire life,” he shrugs.

“That doesn’t mean you should let them.”

He takes a long gulp of wine. “At least they’re giving me those looks because I’m a Lannister, and not because I’m a dwarf. Mostly,” he adds halfheartedly, before offering the dark-haired girl a grin.

She turns away, her nose scrunched up in disgust.

“The fact that you’ve come here in my company probably isn’t helping much either.”

He looks at her, contemplating, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his gaze softens.

“Do not worry,” he tells her. “You’ll win them over.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“You convinced me, didn’t you?” he points out. “You already made the most cynical person in the world believe in you. These Northerners are just stubborn. They’ll come around."

She reaches for her own cup. _I hope so._

Jon Snow is at the head table on the dais, flanked by both of his sisters. The youngest, who looks like him, the one he presumed to be dead is having an animated conversation with Ser Davos.

The other one is quietly watching the people in the Great Hall over the rim of her untouched cup. She’d known about the girl’s existence, but she hadn’t learned more about her until their ship docked in White Harbour.

Jon told her he needed to send Sansa a raven so she could prepare for their arrival. It was the first time she heard her name.

 _“What is she like?”_ she asked him.

_“She’s my sister. She’s smart and kind, and she has red hair.”_

She’d grown somewhat used to his curt answers by then. He was sparse with his words and his affections. At times it reminded her of Drogo.

She’s still staring at Sansa when their eyes lock and the other girl offers her a sweet smile that makes her narrow her eyes.

She’s seen that smile before, in the courtyard, where it left a bitter taste in her mouth, and then again, when she welcomed her to the feast.

The girl complimented her attire, but expressed worry that her white dress might get dirty quite quickly. Her words were accompanied by that same smile, and somehow it had Dany looking for the hidden insult in them.

Missandei enters the Hall, glancing around to find her. Greyworm insisted on staying in the camp with the rest of the Unsullied. She must have returned from visiting him.

She’s stopped by a young fair-haired lord who bows to her and offers her his arm. She throws him an uncertain look, but takes it, and he leads her toward their table.

Arriving there, Missandei quickly releases his arm and he mutters: “My lady,” before giving Daenerys a curt nod.

“Thank you, Lord…?”

“Cerwyn, Your Grace,” he answers, before retreating with another shallow bob of his head.

“You have an admirer,” she tells Missandei as she takes the seat next to her.

They watch him approach the head table, bowing deeply before Jon and his sisters.

“I don’t need any admirers,” Missandei mutters.

Lord Cerwyn walks to a table at the far right of the Hall, greeting a young boy who’s wearing an orange doublet with a large brown moose embroidered on its front. He’s the most colourful figure she’s seen here so far.

Her eyes are drawn back to Jon. He catches her looking and she offers him a smile, but his sister distracts him with a question, and he turns away to give her his attention.

She leans in closely as they talk until he averts his eyes, a scowl etched on his face. He takes her untouched cup and drains it, finally answering the question that upset him.

Soon after, they leave the Hall together, and worry kneads Dany’s stomach as she watches them.

The feast continues, but apart from Missandei and Tyrion, no one pays her any attention. She’s long since finished her cut of roasted boar and the more she drinks of the wine the tarter it tastes, so she might as well leave. She’ll go and find Jon in his chambers and ask what’s troubling him.

A chilly wind hits her as she steps out into the inner bailey, despite the many braziers that are lit there, so she worries to the building he pointed out to her as the Great Keep earlier.

The Keep looks as dark and dull as the rest of Winterfell. The way Jon spoke of it, she expected it to be a bright and wondrous place, but what she's seen of it so far has been somewhat of a disappointment.

The entire North seemed like an endless landscape of whites and greys and blacks, with only the occasional fir or other evergreen to break the monochrome of it all. Though it is her largest kingdom, seeing so much of it has failed to excite her.

 _It belongs to the Iron Throne, to me_ , she convinces herself. It’s only Jon's talk of the stern Northern people and the prospects of war that are discomfiting her, making her feel unwelcome even. This is her kingdom, these are her people, once they’ve come to know and love her, she'll find it easier to love them back.

She picks up her speed, uncomfortable and restless as she walks through these quiet and dark hallways. There is no reason for that though, the notion makes her feel rather ridiculous. She’s an honoured guest, not a prisoner, she has every right to explore the keep and the rest of the castle, but she realizes she has no idea where Jon's chambers are located. The maid she asks for directions is curt with her, barely paying her the proper courtesies.

"His Grace is in the Godswood and wishes not to be disturbed, my lady," she informs her.

Dany's nostrils flare. Tyrion was right that the Northerners are stubborn people. "Your Grace," she corrects the girl. "Now, where are the Lord's chambers?"

The maid frowns. "The Lord's chambers?"

Don't these people speak the Common Tongue? She glares impatiently at the girl, who rather reluctantly tells her where to find them.

"Tell Lord Snow I'll be waiting for him there," she commands the maid, fearing she has no intention of doing so.

She takes a wrong turn once or twice, but eventually she finds the right door and reaches for the handle. When she opens the door, she finds herself face to face with an enormous white wolf that is blocking her path.

The beast stands taller than her, his eyes a ghastly red and his fangs bared. To her chagrin she flinches, but she doesn’t cower. She is the mother of dragons, she won’t let an overgrown dog scare her.

"Ghost, to me!" a female voice calls out.

The wolf melts back into the shadows and Dany moves into the direction of the voice she's heard.

A pale face with large blue eyes appears as she approaches the dim light of the fire. A large bathtub is taking up most of the floor that isn’t covered by the bed, and a naked Sansa Stark is sat in the steaming water it holds, knees pulled up to her chest.

Her wide eyes narrow into a confused frown, but then that hateful smile returns. "Your Grace," she greets her. "I would kneel, but..." she lets her words trail off and gestures at the inside of the tub. "Please forgive Ghost's bad manners."

Daenerys glances at the wolf that is now lying next to the tub, his huge head resting on his front paws.

"You should learn to control your beast," she chides the other woman, pursing her lips.

"Ghost is not mine," she says, her eyes growing soft for a moment. "He's Jon's. He was just trying to protect me."

Dany eyes the wolf warily, irritation kneading her belly.

"Please take a seat, Your Grace." Sansa points at the settee at the foot of the bed.

"Was there anything you wished to discuss?" she asks when Dany sits down.

"Discuss?" she repeats, annoyed by how stupid it is making her sound. She'd seem even sillier if she told Sansa she's been looking for her brother. Shouldn't that be clear anyway? She is in his bedroom, the right question is what Lady Stark is doing here.

"I wasn't expecting to find you here," she mutters, trying to take control of the conversation, trying not to stare at the other woman's long, shapely legs and the way the fire reflects off the soft pile of copper hair on the crown of her head. She crosses her own legs.

Sansa arches an eyebrow and slowly looks around the room. "Last time I checked, these were still my chambers, so it doesn't strike me as odd you'd find me here. Is something amiss with your room, Your Grace?"

"No," she says, holding up a hand. "My room is... satisfactory. Forgive me, but I was told these are the lord's chambers."

"They are," she confirms, and then a shadow flickers over her face, but it is gone before Dany can determine what it is. "You were expecting to find Jon here."

She folds her hands and braces them on her knee. "Obviously."

"I see." Her voice is as cold as the rest of the North.

She rises to her feet, all of her previous modesty forgotten. Daenerys can’t help but stare. She’s a beautiful woman, with soft curves, long limbs and perky tits, but what makes her unable to look away are the myriads of lines marking her porcelain skin.

Red, silvery and white scars cover her belly, hips and thighs. There is a bite mark on the underside of her right breast. Evidently she catches her staring.

"My second husband gave me those," she explains, cold and detached. "He made me bleed every night for as long as we were married. I think you can imagine the other things he did to me."

Dany swallows. "I'm sorry."

Sansa huffs. "I have more," she continues, turning around to reveal the scars on her back. There is another bite mark on her left arse cheek. "The fainter ones are courtesy of my first betrothed, King Joffrey."

She steps out of the tub and reaches for the drying cloth on the chair next to the fire, wrapping herself in it, before she turns to face Daenerys. She becomes painfully aware that the other woman easily towers over her.

"He punished me for every victory my brother Robb, the last King in the North, won," she clarifies. "I don't think he ever touched me himself, only when he threatened to rape me. He left the beatings to his Kingsguard."

Part of Dany is speechless, part of her is annoyed at Lady Stark casually calling these pretenders kings. She isn’t quite sure how to respond, or even why Sansa is sharing this with her.

"I am sorry," she repeats. "I..."

"I don't need your pity," she interrupts. "I just need to know if you understand."

"I do," she says, rising to her feet. "I've been sold like a broodmare, and raped. I have also suffered at the hands of cruel men. I understand."

Sansa stares at her, her eyebrows knitting together for a moment, but then her eyes turn to ice and her face to stone. "I am sorry for your suffering," she says, and there is only sincerity in her voice. "But you misunderstood what I was saying."

She tilts her chin up, squaring her shoulders to make herself even taller, and behind her the wolf has lifted his head.

"The North remembers," she says, her voice trembling, and yet somehow sounding stronger because of it. "And I can't forget. I've bled for my home and my family. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them. You'd do well to remember that."

Dany understands this time. This is a language she's familiar with. It’s a threat. "And you'd do well to remember that I'm here to save the North, and that my dragons could destroy your home in the blink of an eye, if I were inclined to command them so."

"Which one is it?" she scoffs, showing no sign of being impressed by that truth. "Are you here to save us, or to destroy us?"

The fire is hot inside her belly. "I'm here to defend what is mine, from any possible threat!" she forces out through gritted teeth.

"So am I," Sansa says calmly. "I'm glad we finally understand each other."

 

 

 


	4. ICE AND FIRE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa meet in the Broken Tower at midnight.
> 
> Bran's visions reveal a disturbing connection, and he talks to a visitor.

_**JON** _

Sansa's eyes are thawing. Jon can tell she’s almost there. Trust and logic are conquering the anger and pain inside of her, but the rigid set of her mouth betrays that there is still something holding her back from taking that leap.

"I told you, I did what I had to do in order for all of us to survive. I did it for the North, for our people, for you," he tells her, deciding to be dangerously honest.

She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs: "For me?"

He takes a step closer to her, holding his hand out, as if physical closeness will make her understand better, might make her believe him. "With every decision I made, I was always thinking about you, and what you said."

"Were you thinking about me when you fucked her?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Perhaps it is her coarse choice of language, he'll muse later. Perhaps it's the way her nostrils flare or the way she juts her chin out. Maybe it is the way her bottom lip quivers or the flash in her eyes he can't identify. In that moment, Jon certainly can't tell. Maybe it is the mere fact she keeps bringing that up.

He snaps. "Why do you even care so much about that?" Jon heard himself roaring.

"I don't," she retorts, whirling away from him.

He follows her and reaches for her wrist, making her twist around again to face him. Her breath hitches, but she stares right back at him. Her eyes were ice before, but now they are burning.

"Why?" he repeats.

"No, you tell me why," she throws his question back at him, and her breath fanning out over his face makes him aware how close he's pulled her to his own body. His eyes drop to his fingers where they are wrapped around her wrist.

He releases her. "I'm sorry," he says, nodding at her hand.

She snatches it back and balls it against her chest. "Why did you do it?"

He isn't even sure he can put all of his reasons into words for himself, let alone voice them to her. "You said it yourself, she loves me," he starts. "I thought it would help." It sounds incredibly stupid when he says it out loud.

To his surprise, she laughs. Not a sharp or bitter laugh, but a real one, a giggle she tries to hide behind a hand.

He takes a step back in defense, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Of course you would," she sniggers, and then they are both laughing together.

Suddenly he is holding her in his arms and they are cheek to cheek. He closes his eyes and lets it happen, giving in to this rare moment of comfort, and he feels the exhaustion settling in his bones. How could he not be tired? He's only been home for a couple of hours, but it feels as if it has been days since he rode through the gate.

He followed her instructions and came to the Broken Tower close to midnight, climbing the steps all the way up, and as soon as he'd placed his lantern in the nook next to hers, she started hurling questions and insults at him. He'd known to expect that, but it still hurt. Her tone brought back memories of the day he'd betrayed Ygritte and she'd shot him full of arrows.

That was different though. He was always going to end up betraying Ygritte. He never meant to hurt Sansa. He never wanted to see her like this. Disappointing her is the last thing he's ever wanted to do, but he promised to protect her. He's still the shield that guards the realms of men. He'd thought he was prepared to take her anger, but he hadn't been counting on her pain. 

But still, as they raged at each other while he tried to make her see, and he searched for the words to explain his decisions, for the first time in weeks he felt oddly alive.

Now he feels smaller, deflated somehow, and still slightly breathless from their argument. _This isn't over_ , the voice inside his head warns him, but for now it is. For now it might be enough if he just shared a simple truth with her. "I missed you," he whispers, his voice rough and scraping his throat.

Sansa makes the slightest move to lean her forehead against his and whispers back: "I missed you, too." The tip of her nose grazes the bridge of his and he finds himself leaning in, feeling her exhale against his lips.

He opens his eyes to already find her staring at him. He lowers them to find her licking her lips and quickly glances back up. Their eyes lock and he lingers there, not sure whether he is trying to tell her something or looking for an answer in those blue depths. The sharp edges of her eyes finally soften and her lashes flutter, drawing his attention to the blush that has risen on her cheeks.

He purses his lips, desperately trying to remember what they were talking about. "I need you to believe me. It was the only way,” he rasps, breaking the spell of the moment. "Not just... All of it."

"If you say so, Jon," she concedes, pulling away from his embrace, hugging her own frame as she adds: "I believe you." Then why does it sound like she wishes she didn't?

"Are you going to marry her?" she asks in a small voice.

"What?"

"It seems like the most obvious solution," she points out as she slides down against the wall, sitting down on on the hem of her cloak. "You'd strengthen your alliance. It might convince her to let the North have its independence."

He sinks down beside her, leaning his forearms on his knees. "There's no time for that now. We have a war to fight."

"And what about after?"

He's seen King's Landing, where people live crammed together like livestock. It's humid and stuffy, too warm even in winter and the foul stench still hasn't left his nostrils. He could never belong there. "I belong here, in the North, with my family." _With you_ , he'd like to add, but he doesn't even know why that's different, so he holds his tongue.

She tilts her head, and the shadows from the lanterns they've brought dance on her face. "So when this war is over, and all is said and done, she'll be our enemy, because you can't finish what you've started? The game is dangerous."

It is and he's in over his head. If both he and Daenerys return from the war alive, it'll start all over again. "Perhaps it would be easier for everyone if I don't return."

She chuckles darkly and her eyes shine fiercely. "Oh no, Jon, you will come back to me, you promised to protect me."

"You told me I should stop trying to protect you," he whispers, offering her a half-smile.

"Perhaps you should, but you belong in the North. You're a Stark. In Winter we must protect ourselves, look after one another."

 _I'm not a Stark_ , the ever-present voice inside his head urges him to remind her, but she'll just tell him he's wrong again. He was a fool to think it would all finally be easy. They need Daenerys now and he can't deny he's grown fond of her, but he's not blind to her selfish ambitions and impulsive tendencies.  _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

 

 

 

_**BRAN**  
_

_He was flying again. Far below, leagues of moors and grassland slipped by. As the sun started setting, Bran began his descent._

_He saw a large palace, protected by strong walls, its marble balconies and terraces bathed in a deep pink and orange evening light._

_He flew in through an open window, following a vague mumbling leading him through a long hallway. He slipped through a narrow gap between a double door into the palace's Great Hall. It was a beautiful room, with pale pink marble floors, white and grey marbe walls and huge tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen._

_At the centre of the Hall he found a gathering of two dozen people dressed, most of them dressed in crimson and black. Less than half of them had silvergold hair and purple eyes._

_Bran saw a man with a crown, and two younger men who might be the first man's sons. An older woman with raven hair and a tall  grey-haired knight were watching from the sidelines._

_A younger woman had her arms wrapped around a girl who was younger than Bran,  but was cradling her protruding belly. She was talking to two other silver-haired women._

_An old man in maester robes was studying a scroll, answering the questions of a boy about the same age as the girl._

_There were seven men with brown leather caps and black robes embroidered with strange glyphs. Two of them were guarding small jars, while the others were painting those same glyphs on the marble floor._

_The maester put his scroll away and told the rest of them it was time._

_As the King watched, seven Targaryens gathered to stand in a circle, seven chalices and seven daggers at their feet. And in the middle, behind a woman in red robes, a shallow pool made of the same pale pink marble as the floor, containing seven dragon eggs._

_All seven of them were beautiful. Silver and pale blue. Black and bright green. Gold and cream. Black and crimson. Indigo and milky white. Bronze and wine red. Lilac and smoky grey._

_"A dragon shall be born tonight," the Red Priestess announced._

_The young pregnant girl stepped into the circle. The priestess took her hand, slashing a dagger across her palm, and made her touch all of the eggs. Once she had finished, she left the circle again._

_The priestess started chanting a prayer in High Valyrian, and the Targaryens standing in the circle joined her. As one, they lifted their daggers and cut into their palms, letting their blood drip into the chalices._

_The pyromancers brought them the jars and one by one, they carefully poured the bright green liquid, mixing it with their blood._

_They kept chanting their spells, and the priestess gathered their cups to submerge the dragon eggs in wildfire and dragon blood._

_The pool was set aflame and it all went wrong. The boiling liquid poured over the marble edges and in a matter of moments, the Great Hall was ablaze._

_The screams tore at his heart and curdled his blood as the wildfire raged._ _There was a blast and Bran was hurled out of the palace of Summerhall._

_When his eyes flew open again, he saw dozens of others opening with his, all of them a bright and icy blue. A thick mist rolled up from the Heart of Winter and the white winds started blowing._

He feels a sharp pull inside his belly and he's flying again, inside a black tunnel this time, and he's going so fast if feels as if the wind is going to crush him. He flies up, up, up and out of the tunnel, soaring high above the ground.

Ice and fire ravage the lands, and where they meet a wall of dragonglass emerges from the ground. Dragons fall from the sky and the dead are dead again.

"We need dragonglass," Jon tells Sansa.

"Dragonglass," Samwell Tarly whispers.

Leaf nods. "Dragonglass," she confirms.

Bran is on his own two feet again, swiftly advancing on the Night King. He reaches out, aiming for his heart, but then he has Bran's wrist in his icy grasp again, and he cries out.

His eyes fly open. He gasps. The hand around his wrist isn't cold, it's almost unnaturally warm. 

A lovely face framed by silvery curls smiles down at him. "You must be Bran Stark. I was told I could find you here."

The dark night skies are starting to shift to a cold grey, and there's comforting whisper around him. He knows where he is. "It's very early," he tells his visitor.

"Yes," she says. "I am-

"Daenerys Jelmazmo hen Targario Lentrot, hen Valyrio Uepo anogar."

"You speak High Valyrian?" There's excitment in her voice.

"No," he says simply. 

A line appears between her eyebrows and for half a heartbeat flames of black and green flicker in her violet eyes. He blinks and shakes his head. It must be a remnant of his earlier visions.

A couple of feet behind her, four Unsullied are standing guard.

"Daenerys Stormborn," he repeats in the Common Tongue, tearing his eyes away from them. "Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Stallion who Mounts the World."

She recoils at his last words. "No, that's not me. How do you know...?"

"You've come a long way," he tells her. "You were once a frightened child, but you woke the dragon on the Dothraki Sea."

She listens to him with narrowed eyes and bated breath.

"Everything you did brought you where you are now," he continues. "Where you belong. Home."

That brings a smile to her face, but he knows what's coming will wipe it off again.

"It makes you wonder why Westeros doesn't  _feel_  like home to you. What were you expecting? Relief? Satisfaction? Happiness?"

She can only stare at him, nostrils flaring. "How do you know all of that?"

"You said you don't believe in the gods anymore, but sometimes late at night, when you think you're alone, you still pray, don't you?

"When I  _think_ I'm alone?" She glares at him. "Was it Jon who told you this?"

"No. Jon hasn't told me anything, but I _see_ everything," he says calmly. "It's scary, isn't it? Having so much power? I thought you might understand."

Dragons are fire made flesh, and fire is power. But there are other powers in the world. Will her dragons be enough to get her what she wants?

Even now, she still has a chance at a different future. He's wondered whether he should tell her. Would it be the right thing to do? Didn't he make his choice when he decided Jon must know? 

He wishes the Three-Eyed Raven had never come to him. How he wishes the choice wouldn't be his to make. But he thinks it's the right one. And perhaps it's too late for her to turn back now. People rarely listen to well-meant advice.

"You came to me because you wanted answers, but instead I will give you a question." He looks at her, making sure he has her full attention. "What will it take to fill that gaping hole inside of you? You're the only person who knows the answer."

She gulps, nervously licking her lips, and she stares at him with wide and frightened eyes. It's all he can give her. He might have already said too much. 

"Will you ask one of your men to help me back inside?" He has a lot of work to do today. And he needs to speak to Jon.

She nods and turns around, murmuring commands before she flees from the Godswood. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about creepy Bran. I promise I _am_ slowly trying to bring him back!
> 
> And yeah, I made Bran say the trailer lines to Daenerys, just to take the piss out of the idea and turn it on its head ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. TRUTH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title speaks for itself...
> 
> POV for this chapter is Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this was supposed to be 6 chapters, but I hit a bit of writing slump and kept struggling with what was originally meant to be chapter 5.
> 
> Eventually I decided to skip it for now and include those bits later, where they fit in more organically and the flow doesn't get interrupted as much, I hope. I'll have to figure out how I'm going to make it work.
> 
> For now, have an emotional Jonsa-heavy chapter to conclude part 1!

_**SANSA** _

Bran sits staring into nothingness, not responding to Sansa's attempts to make conversation. It still unnerves her, how her sweet and lively little brother has changed into this solemn semblance of a man. There are precious moments when the Bran she used to know slips through, but they're scarce.

"Why did you want us to come here, Bran?"

His face remains blank as he answers: "I'll explain when Jon gets here. He needs to know."

Sansa frowns and exchanges a look with Samwell Tarly, who smiles back nervously. The portly man with the kind face who used to be Jon's fellow brother of the Watch seems to be trying to blend in with the walls, as if to make himself invisible.

She wonders why Bran has called them into his chambers this early. They haven't even broken their fast yet. If he gets this over quickly, she can return to all the work that's waiting for her in her solar.

Jon enters with Arya, mussing her hair before closing the door and Sansa smiles at their happy faces. Bran remains immobile when Jon hugs him. Sansa can see it unsettles him a bit, but she only shrugs at the questioning glance he throws her.

"Come sit closer to the fire," Bran says and a chill runs down Sansa's spine. It's what Old Nan used to say before she told one of her scary stories.

Jon sits on the other end of the settee Sansa is occupying and Arya folds herself down onto the furs covering the floor, leaning back between Jon and Sansa's legs.

Bran blinks at his youngest sister, as if he's seeing her for the first time. "You really do look like her," he remarks.

Jon clears his throat. "You wanted to talk to us, Bran? We're all here now."

"Sam and I discovered the truth," Bran states flatly. "Tell them what you found in the Citadel, Sam."

Sam shuffles out of his corner and throws a nervous glance at Jon. "Well, it wasn't me, really. It was Gilly. She found it in a book called- you wouldn't be interested in all of that. The point is, she found out that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen annulled his marriage to Elia Martell so he could wed Lyanna Stark."

"Our Aunt Lyanna?" Arya asks. "But Rhaegar kidnapped and raped her. Why would she agree to marry him?"

_Maybe she didn't agree. Maybe they didn't give her a choice._

"That's the story we've been told our entire lives, isn't it?" Bran tilts his head. "But that story is a lie. Rhaegar and Lyanna loved each other."

Jon looks from his friend to Bran. "So you're saying Rhaegar set his wife aside and turned their children into bastards because he was in love with our Aunt Lyanna?"

"That's stupid!" Arya decides and Sansa agrees. Her younger self would have swooned at hearing such a tale, but all she can think now is poor Elia, poor Rhaenys, poor Aegon. Poor Lyanna.

"It can't be true," Arya continues. "Aunt Lyanna died! Rhaegar killed her!"

"He did," Bran agrees.

"How can that be right?" Sansa asks. "He loved her and yet he still killed her? That doesn't make sense, Bran."

"What Bran is trying to say," Sam explains, finally coming into the full light of the fire, hands on the back of Bran's chair, "technically, in a way, Rhaegar did kill her. She died giving birth to his trueborn son, Aegon Targaryen."

"But Elia's son was named Aegon Targaryen!" Sansa exclaims.

Sam giggles nervously. "For some reason it was really important to Rhaegar that his son be named Aegon."

"Father found Aunt Lyanna in the Tower of Joy. She made him promise to protect her son from Robert Baratheon's wrath. It was her dying wish."

Arya is leaning forward, eagerly listening for the conclusion of the story. "But what happened to the baby?"

Bran is staring at Jon and Sansa already knows. "Father brought him home to raise as his own. He lied to Mother. He lied to all of us."

Jon has frozen into place. He looks as if he's carved from stone and Sansa is tempted to reach out to check if he's still breathing.

"No," Arya whispers. "It can't be true. Jon can't be a Targaryen." She pushes herself to her feet and turns around to face him. "This doesn't change anything. You're still our brother."

He doesn't respond. Sansa's not even certain he's heard Arya's words. Her sister's eyes bore into hers, begging her. "Tell him, Sansa!"

Sansa opens her mouth, but she seems to have lost the ability to speak. Rhaegar's trueborn son... Gods! If Daenerys finds out the Iron Throne is rightfully Jon's... Sansa doesn't even want to imagine what she might do.

"No one can know," she manages to whisper.

"Jon!" She clasps his hand and her touch finally seems to pull him out of his stupor. He meets her eyes, but his are not really there.

"We need to keep this a secret."

He licks his lips, eyebrows knitting together.

If their bannermen find out, they might literally throw Jon out of Winterfell right away.

He blinks once and rises, pulling away from her grasp, and leaves the room, Arya trailing after him.

Sansa opens and closes her mouth, glaring from Bran to Sam. The latter lowers his head to stare at his boots, but Bran meets her stare calmly and says: "He needed to know."

***

By the time Arya storms into her chambers that afternoon, Sansa hasn't been able to make any progress with the letters and ledgers in front of her. Maths has never been her strong suit and her mind keeps drifting to Jon. She drops the ledger she's holding and leans over the desk to look at Arya.

Her sister needs to catch her breath and she thinks it's more due to the simmering frustration that she can hardly keep contained than to any physical exertion. She just stands in the doorway, chewing the inside of her cheek and glaring at a spot behind Sansa's shoulder.

"Close the door," she urges her. "How is he?"

To her surprise her sister obeys immediately and then words start falling out of her mouth. "He sat on his knees in front of the heart tree for over an hour, caressing the fucking bark as if he's in love with it and refused to say as much as a word to me! Then suddenly he got up and went to the training yard."

"That's good, right?" Sansa manages to interject. That sounds like a normal thing for Jon to do.

Arya's chewing has moved on to her lip and she cocks her head as she puts her hands on her hips. "That depends, I s'pose. If you consider destroying three training dummies, two tourney swords and a Targaryen banner a good thing."

Sansa sighs as she tilts her head back against her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, and Harry Hardyng needs stitches."

"Who's Harry Hardyng?"

Arya shrugs. "Some square-jawed ponce from the Vale. He has good hair, you'd like him."

"Oh," Sansa mutters. "Ser Harrold, of course! Why does he need stitches?"

"Jon!" she exclaims in exasperation, as if that's obvious. "Why do you reckon Bran thought it a good idea to tell him now?" After a short pause she adds: "So, what are you going to do?"

Sansa blinks. "Me? You should talk to him."

“I tried!” Arya huffs, but Sansa doesn’t miss the flash of hurt in her eyes.

"He's just trying to protect you," she says, studying Arya's face. "You're his little sister and he doesn't want to burden you. He was like that with me at first, too."

"But not anymore," Arya points out. "So you should go and talk to him!"

She rises and starts pacing the room. "Arya, I think Jon just needs some time to deal with this on his own."

"Fine. Give him some time, but not too much!"

With those words Arya is out the door again, no doubt back to the training yard to get rid of her own frustrations.

***

It's already dark outside when Sansa finally finds him in his chambers, nursing a cup of ale in front of a roaring fire, clad in nothing but his breeches. His eyes are slightly unfocused and red-rimmed when he looks up at her. He tries to smile but it seems oddly out of his place on his drawn face.

She's not sure how to proceed so she sits down in the chair next to him and joins him staring into the flames. This close she can smell the ale on his breath and from the dark stain on the right knee of his breeches and she realizes he must be quite far into his cups. Her body involuntarily tenses up as her throat clenches shut, but she takes deep breaths to steady herself. _Jon won't hurt me._

She pulls her gaze away from the fireplace and allows herself to take him in. For once his curls are out of their bun, loosely framing his face, which despite the lines of worry and fatigue on it, is still strong and handsome. He has the body of a soldier. His arms, back and shoulders have that chiseled look she used to admire. She wonders what it would feel like to run her hands through those soft curls and down his hard muscles.

Suddenly he turns to her and she's startled back into reality, hoping he can't see the flush on her face and neck in the firelight. "Sansa," he slurs, grinning and slightly lisping over the s-es and she decides she rather likes it.

He drains his cup, pushing himself to his feet with difficulty, and manages to kneel in front of her with surprising grace. For a moment he holds her gaze, his own eyes hollow and whispers her name again. His gaze drops then and his face pulls into a frown.

"I never physically bent the knee to her," he mutters pensively, pouting all the while. "She's my aunt," he starts counting on his fingers. "You're my cousin, so is Bran. And Arya. And... Ned Stark is not my father."

Before Sansa can process his words, he leans into her, laying his head in her lap. His shoulders start jerking and muffled whimpers start filling the room. It takes a couple of moments for her to realize that he's sobbing. She starts stroking his head, running her fingers through his curls, as she imagined doing earlier. They're even softer than she thought they'd be.

His arms close around her waist, his cheek pressing into her lower belly and she puts one hand on his hot bare shoulder as she continues caressing his hair.

"I've never been more than a nameless bastard," he murmurs into the fabric of her dress, his breath hot and damp as it seeps all the way through to her skin. "But I had one thing to hold onto, that Ned Stark was my father. And now I've lost even that."

"Sssh," she hushes him. "That's not true. Rhaegar Targaryen may have sired you, but Father raised you as his own, and that's what matters."

"Do you believe that?"

"I do. You’re still a Stark,” she tells him.

He doesn’t answer, he just lifts his head and stares up at her.

“You’re still my—brother, she tries to say, but the word won’t come out. He’s still holding her gaze, his eyes oddly focused now, and they’re both holding their breaths.

“You’re still my family,” she decides to say, because that doesn’t feel like a lie.

When he finally blinks, she’s the first to avert her eyes.

They sit like that for a while and though the silence is not entirely uncomfortable, Sansa feels compelled to do something, so she decides to sing, which she hasn't done in a very long time. It's a simple song, one her Mother used to sing to Rickon when he was still a babe. Perhaps it's silly to sing such a song to a grown man, but Jon doesn't seem to mind. Instead he hums along, his low voice sending pleasant vibrations through her belly.

He grows still and she fears he'll fall asleep like this and she won't be able to move him, so she hooks her arms under his shoulders and urges him to get up. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

She manages to get him to his feet, but he slumps into her, wrapping his arms around her waist again and nuzzling her neck. His nose and lips brush her skin and his beard prickles. It fills her with a warmth that has her insides fluttering. She shakes it off and guides him to the bed, helping him under the furs.

She's about to turn around, but he clasps her hand and whispers: "Please, don't leave me."

His eyes are wide, his full lips slightly parted and there's a genuine fear there, of what she does not know. She rolls him onto his side, facing away from her and crawls in after him. She'll only stay for a couple of moments, until he's fallen asleep.

He reaches for her hand again, lacing their fingers together over his heart. She can feel the scars she couldn't see earlier from the way he was hunched over. If she wanted, she could pull free from his grasp quite easily, but she doesn't.

When her head hits the pillow, she feels the fatigue settling in her bones, and without thinking, she snuggles closer to Jon's back. He's so warm. It won't hurt if she only closes her eyes for a moment.

His soft snoring starts filling the room and she knows she should leave, but before the conscious thought has had a chance to take form in her mind, sleep pulls her under.

****

 


End file.
